Today is the Transgender Day of Remembrance. It is a day to remember those who were murdered for having the courage to be who they are.
Here is a token to all transgender people, my people, a haiku in memoriam of your beautiful lives where you have had the bravery to find yourselves and to seek to reflect the inner in the outer.
You join a long list of people killed for being themselves. Every cultural, political, gender, religious, sexual, racial, condition, and national label that has caused you to be discriminated, assaulted, or killed is one of the deepest shames of humanity.
To have the courage to continue to pave the way for a humanity that is just and enlightened is now our burden.
I am that I AM.
Beyond all labels and names,
I see me in you.
Koyote the Blind
The Heart is a Light
For Koyote the Blind
A light shines in darkness
A heart blazes
A flame in the wilderness
Under the blue canopy of sky
A bush the burns in the desert
The truth has a friend
Who makes introductions
In the sacred tongues
To the cool moon and warm sun
A friend who stalks
hidden pathways amid the wavering stars
flashing out of the purple deep
winking with the rhythmic breath of the gods
who each in their turn
whisper a name of the Beloved into his ear
A friend whose eyes never shy
From the tears of the One
Who is our beginning
Ever flowing waters
That pour from his mouth
Into our hearts
Now alight with pure intent
–gnosticman (Gerald Porter, requiescat in pace, will be deeply missed)
Every thought comes and goes.
Every second of time comes and goes.
Every aspiration comes and goes.
Every lifetime I’ve had, it comes and goes.
Every second of time, it comes and goes.
Every flicker of time, it comes and goes.
The watcher watches; and when I move,
the watcher watches.
When I dance, the watcher watches.
When I love, the watcher watches.
When I kill and consume the flesh of my enemy,
the watcher watches.
When I sin of hatred, the watcher watches.
When I sin for love, the watcher watches.
When I pray to God, the watcher watches.
When I blaspheme against God, the watcher watches.
The watcher watches all the time;
and it does not change;
it does not move.
The watcher watches;
and the watcher inside me is what the five watchers
perched on the Tree of Life,
and through the darkness within them,
watch the watcher within.
(The Watchers, from Koyote’s Angelic Host series)
What I can observe is that in the distant depth of the night, there in the profundity of the nocturnal sky where the night and the silence are perennial and identical, the stars shiver silent and distant, allowing me to perceive through the immense void the vibrations of silence.
So long in exile,
I’ve made the wandering winds
my most firm abode.
She comes to me naked, in the purity of her presence, without the garments of light, sounds, life and thought.
I’ve known her longer than myself. I’ve known her before I, before time, before the memory of her.
I have seemed to forget her, and in the dark dungeons of forgetfulness, in that mindless chaos of existence, I looked for her.
She was there, always, hidden in every desire and every which pain.
Behind every corner of thought, peeking or waiting at the periphery of the horizon of time and experience, she shines eternally in relentless and unwavering wait.
She weaves and undoes the endless tapestry of existence phenomenal, waiting for the beloved to come to her as vagabond, worthless suitor, with his only claim in the secret chamber of his heart–an arrow certain and true.
She comes to me naked, silent, and I am blinded and deafened by her all consuming touch.
The writer is an author creating the flow and rhythm of speech. Any time we translate a manuscript from one language to another, however, we reinvent it. We create it again, and when we read the written word we must translate the meaning, and in doing that, we reinvent it, recreate it, and give it form. We can’t help but be the co-authors of everything we read, everything we understand, and everything we perceive.